Archive

Okay. Once again. This is MerleFest weekend. It’s a busy weekend for North Carolina writers. See, I spent today with Joan Osborne, Sam Bush and Doc Watson.

Sox offense? You spent the day doing what, exactly?

Someone explain to me what is going on!

Look at the trouble you get into, Tito, when I’m not there to record your every move (or LACK THEREOF).

You people better get it together tomorrow.

That means you too, blog readers! I had to work, so I left YOU in charge. That’s right. I’m talking to you, FireDannyAinge. And YOU, Peter. And YOU, Dmitri. And Jeb. And Sportsattitude. And everyone else whose comments I appreciate.

I have been interviewing the Doobie Brothers all day. See, while you were hurling a ball around for funsies, I was actually doing MY job.

So… I have not had a chance to completely analyze your FAILURE. I haven’t had a chance to figure out whose effigy I need to construct before my million hour writing crusade tomorrow. But, Bobby Jenks, Youkie Bear says I should talk to you.

So I’m talking to you, Bobby Jenks. I’m talking to you and I am trying to use small words so you can understand me through that mass of irrelevant crap on your chin.

WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU CATERPILLAR FACED TWIT CLOWN??

I don’t know whether to yell at you or do the defeated headshake.

I don’t know whether to shoot you a subliminal toe stubbing curse or throw a “trade him” temper tantrum.

And I’m too tired to think of how many ridiculous things rhyme with your name, JENKS. But I’m sure when I sing in the shower in the AM, I will be inspired to construct lots of nasty lyrics about how UTTERLY USELESS YOU ARE.

There’s this chess game where you play opposite chess. It’s called suicide chess, I think, where you TRY to get checkmated. The first person to force the opponent to checkmate them wins…

WERE YOU PLAYING SUICIDE BASEBALL?

You know what? I can’t do this. My feet hurt. And my tolerance has been crushed by children with sticky fingers and funnel cakes.

So I am giving you a pass.

I’m giving you the whole night to think about what you’ve done.

Sob into your pillow, Jenks. Let it out now. Because Monday, when MerleFest is over, I am going to yell at your face so loudly that if your face was a house with pigs it would be like that fairy tale where all the pigs have to run into the brick house because their straw house dies.

Bobby Jenks, I HATE you.

~L

PS- Random. A reporter today (not me) asked Patrick Simmons of the Doobie Bros if Jesus was still alright with him.

Patrick Simmons replied, straight-faced, “Jesus is just alright.”

You know what’s not alright, JENKS? LOSING TO THE MARINERS. I bet Mike Cameron glares at you in the locker room. You RUINED his homeruns, Jenks. Damn you.

See, I’m distracted by THIS all weekend. So I’m going to need you guys (this means YOU, Dice-K) to really apply yourselves, okay? Because I’m going to be in writer-work mode. All. Weekend. So… if you’d be in pitcher-work mode, I’d appreciate it.

Oh god. I hope that 2010 Dice didn’t hitch a ride when loser 2010 Josh Beckett swiped the time machine back from 2007 Josh Beckett Thursday.

I swear on the grittiness of baseball dirt, on the existence of preservatives in yellow hotdog mustard that I will throw a grade A, circa 1986 temper tantrum if you mess up our winning streak.

Do you hear me Clay Buchholz? I have had a long fricking day and we are not going to lose to the fricking Orioles! Who, in my opinion, are going to show themselves as the worst team in baseball (after Tampa. Give it time).

Now, I know we’re not super-losing yet. I know that we’re only in the second inning. I just thought that I should communicate my feelings to you, Clay Buchholz. You know, before you pitch in the third inning.

Thanks.

——

9:23.

Oh. My. God.

12 hits? to 5 hits? Really? TWELVE HITS, CLAY?!

Mark Reynolds is batting. Bases are loaded. FRICKING loaded.

You know, kiddies. Like that time that we had the bases loaded and YOU, Gonz, decided to strand them on little itty bitty base islands.

Remember that?

Because I caught that millisecond.

And… Another score.

See? That’s what is supposed to happen when you LOAD THE BASES, Gonz.

And that is why we don’t let them LOAD THE BASES, Clay.

I am walking my dog. If I come back and it’s WORSE than 4-1? Well… let’s just say I’ve got plans for your cardboard effigy, Clay.

—

Okay. Let’s just breathe for a second. Okay? Okay. Just breathing. Breathing. Not thinking about icky-horrible-no-good-day worthy of a comic strip. Not thinking about Clay Buchholz cashing in that compounded interest on the bad day and losing to the fricking ORIOLES.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Just breathing.

Gonz starts the 8th. Okay. 9:31 p.m. Feeling good. Feeling fine.

—–

A double. Okay. Thanks, Gonz. Okay. Annnnddddd a pop out for Youk. But that’s just one out, right? It will be just dandy… 9:34. Papi in the 8th. Papi, Papi, Papi. Strike out. Crappola.

—

It’s okay. It’s 9:37. We’re a “two out team,” Matt said earlier today. We live for two out moments, he said. Okay, Matt. Okay.

—-

Jed Lowrie. Strike out. 9:39.

—-

Matt Albers. I have lots of cardboard, Matt Albers. Lots of cardboard for effigy makin’.

Good. One on base and only one out. Nope that’s a strike. No outs. NO OUTS. Good.

SARCASM, MATT ALBERS.

9:44

—-

An out. That’s something. I. Guess. 9:46 p.m. You know what, Boston? You make me sorry my work day ended. At least I’m writing magazine stuff on the river tomorrow. I won’t have to think of you people for several hours. I’ll work out my aggression on the whitewater.

—-

Another out. Long inning. This is like the inning that time forgot. 9:50.

—

Three outs. Okay. Neat.

—-

Time for a rally. What can I do to motivate you boys? See, it’s difficult when you live in a computer screen. I can’t even flash you.

—-

9:53. RALLY. Now. Do it. JD DREW.

—

Out. Damn. 9:56.

—

Carl Crawford. Fah-fricking-tastic. And two strikes. Good. And a strike out. Of fricking course.

—-

I’m thinking an exacto knife would work better for this cardboard. 9:57.